


En Faire Tout Un Fromage - To Make A Mountain Out Of A Molehill

by afeverxlongingstill



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 06:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14539158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afeverxlongingstill/pseuds/afeverxlongingstill
Summary: “I’ll finger fuck you under the table at a restaurant, then lick my fingers when I’m done. I don’t give a fuck”A small collection of porn with little/some plot.





	En Faire Tout Un Fromage - To Make A Mountain Out Of A Molehill

**Author's Note:**

> I asked my mutuals for prompts and I wasn’t let down  
> A thing in which I try to keep the female character nameless  
> F O R S C I E N C E

Part 1/? -  
“En faire tout un fromage.”  
to make a mountain out of a molehill;  
to make a fuss about something.

“Shut up,” It is an automatic response to the low grumble, eyes boring into the yellowing volume at hand. The soft, uncomfortable huff he receives is an unusual form of response coming from her and he lifts his gaze from the long dead cuneiform. Her brows crease as she leans forward, invested in her task and it is in this moment that he saunters through contemplation.

It happens again. The tiny, distinct growl. His teeth clack, jaws flexing - frustrated with the notion of visibly giving a damn. The truth is that he has been there before - once. Hungry. Wanting and disgusted as his stomach cried out. Even now, with his grace on the mend, if he thinks on it long enough he can still feel the dull, hollow ache. 

“Get ready, we’re leaving.” As his insubordinate companion unhinges her mouth to voice her objections he holds up a silencing finger, “Not this time.” A silent war of wills begins, his expression sliding into the jagged finality of resolution and, for the first time in a long time, she breaks without stern coercion.

Twenty minutes later has him pacing in the antechamber. Things were easy for him - a snap away. Quick and without the necessity of patience. There was no suffering through enduring banality. It is something he is not well versed in and as the seconds tick by, Lucifer stares down the length of the east corridor. What was taking so long?

Five insufferable minutes later - three hundred tick tocking seconds - he is finally put out of his misery. Palm pressing against the seat of perfect zippered teeth at her back, fingers grip into the hollow of an elbow - silent, ushering. Barely reined patience.

The back of the limo is cold, as is the press of his thigh against her own, even through layers of fabric and between ribbons of too-bright streetlights he stares sidelong. Lucifer is unashamed in his calculations, pupils dragging and against the gentle rock of uneven pavement she shivers - uneasy. This wasn’t their usual bickering or conspiratorial antics it was? Somehow colder, more impersonal.

If the sleek, modern architecture of the building says anything about the fare, it is that it reeks gaudy lasciviousness. Likely serving items such as aubergine caviar and oyster concassé. The inside is nothing but mood lighting and other worldly ambiance and the maître d' is quick to accommodate although the restaurant is packed.

Lucifer’s hand returns to the seat of her lower back as they sway between scattered seating and, as the passage narrows he side steps, close behind - domineering without making eye contact. Although he isn’t keen on human ritual he stands while she sits with assistance from the maître d' and he is even careful about the way he folds himself into the seat beside her, avoiding wrinkles.

Raising a hand he politely declines the recitation of the menu with a measure of patience that is unusual for him and he lowly rattles off careful syllables, mouth at home in shaping foreign languages. “Oui,” He says, handling a linen napkin, “Merci.”

Vintage bubbles dance against crystal when the waiter shuffles off, leaving the dark green bottle inside of its silver chiller behind and Lucifer relaxes against the low back of the seat. Fingers twist around the bottom of the stem, riding the rim of the delicate foot and he does his best to seem distracted by the simple motion - absorbed in the quiet chatter of a nearby table. But, he steals tiny, hardly noticed glances over the solitude of his impromptu dinner-date.

He isn’t certain on the reason for her quietude but where he hadn’t been bothered by it during the journey here, he can feel his muscles twitch with agitation. Lips thin into an unamused line as he hefts the fluted glass, peering over the rim before indulging in carbonation and he stares openly down the length of his nose at her. Despite his intense and sudden frustration he is careful to set the glass down gingerly, hands curling around one of his crossed legs beyond the table cloth.

“Cat got your tongue?” His head angles to the side, tip of his forked tongue wriggling against the backs of his teeth. The way her mouth sets into a soft pout of indignance, eyes sparkling, signals her continuance of silent protest and a single brow arches at the unspoken challenge. 

“I have my ways,” He totes almost silently, wearing the hem of the napkin against crisply pleated pants. “And eventually, you’ll talk.” As the prospect of mischievousness washes over him his expression breaks, a slow one sided grin spreading sloppily. The way she stiffens against her seat has him releasing a low rumbling chuckle - amused with himself already. 

“Patience kitten,” His lower lip perches around glass, tips of his tongue skirting the rim before he chances another sip. Lucifer purposely lets the seconds stack up as he makes a slow, rotating game out of barely lifting the glass and setting it down. Like an anticipatory heartbeat, he continues on until a steaming placement of fondue savoyarde rests against the starched tablecloth.

As a way to keep up appearances he reaches for a skewer, stabbing a square of bread and, with a short smirk that screams look-what-I-can-do, he extends the - surprisingly - non-stabby end out in offering. “It doesn’t bite,” He says after a too long pause of hanging on. Lips tug down in a barely noticeable look of shock as the elongated utensil leaves his hand and, expression deflating back to one of stoic neutrality, he begins biding his time. 

A thumb curls dragging against the stem of the champagne flute and he watches effervescence ascend, bobbing along the curve of glass as he waits. The first nine minutes she spends fluctuating between observing him warily through mascara flecked lashes and spearing a meagre amount of prepared ingredients and? He pretends not to notice, motionless save for the rhythmic up and down of his thumb against stemware. There was a time he had spent centuries and eons and even more so motionless - waiting. Still, so that the hallucinatory monsters of the cage might stop their undesirable ritual of insanity.

It hadn’t worked. 

But he, without doubt, possessed the determination to withstand this tiny squall seated beside him and he is resigned to persevere - be victorious in this little, unspoken quarrel. A hand disappears under the table, hidden by a long cloth and he grips the curve of knee closest to him, satisfied smile growing as she jumps, legs crossing. 

“Stop that,” Lucifer’s expression falls into that of utter seriousness much too quickly, voice cold and commanding although he keeps it low. “My rules, my date,” He drops the ‘d’ word purposely, curious of it’s effect and he isn’t let down, “My game.” He grins into the barely blushing cheeks of his accompaniment, “Open up.” Silence passes between them, the clatter of silverware against china seeping in from the surrounding tables as patrons chug along, blissfully unaware of him and his nearness and his intentions. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you enjoyed this?  
> It makes me happy when you do!!  
> Thank you !!


End file.
